Photo of my Mother as a Newlywed

Occupied Germany, 1950.
The small-town girl who married her soldier.
Innocent ringlets and wool sweater,
posing on ice skates. Yet the impish
smile foretelling the sorcery she
seems to know already,
how one day she will conjure me
in her own darkroom.

Returning From the Airport
When Dad Went to Vietnam

When Mom dissolved in tears
the rest of us started sobbing,
my brother and I in crew cuts,
my sisters clutching Barbies.

Fear had slipped into the car,
stealthy in black pajamas.
Cold fingers gripped our throats.
The ambush was a slaughter.

Mark Jackley is a business writer who lives in the Washington, DC,
area. His
poems have appeared in various journals, and his chapbook, Brevities, is scheduled to be published later this year by Ginninderra Press.